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My Sister, My Love: The Intimate Story of Skyler Rampike

My Sister, My Love: The Intimate Story of Skyler Rampike

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My Sister, My Love: The Intimate Story of Skyler Rampike

4/5 (19 évaluations)
714 pages
11 heures
Oct 13, 2009


New York Times bestselling author of The Falls, Blonde, and We Were the Mulvaneys, Joyce Carol Oates returns with a dark, wry, satirical tale—inspired by an unsolved American true-crime mystery.

"Dysfunctional families are all alike. Ditto 'survivors.'"

So begins the unexpurgated first-person narrative of nineteen-year-old Skyler Rampike, the only surviving child of an "infamous" American family. A decade ago the Rampikes were destroyed by the murder of Skyler's six-year-old ice-skating champion sister, Bliss, and the media scrutiny that followed. Part investigation into the unsolved murder; part elegy for the lost Bliss and for Skyler's own lost childhood; and part corrosively funny exposé of the pretensions of upper-middle-class American suburbia, this captivating novel explores with unexpected sympathy and subtlety the intimate lives of those who dwell in Tabloid Hell.

Likely to be Joyce Carol Oates's most controversial novel to date, as well as her most boldly satirical, this unconventional work of fiction is sure to be recognized as a classic exploration of the tragic interface between private life and the perilous life of "celebrity." In My Sister, My Love: The Intimate Story of Skyler Rampike, the incomparable Oates once again mines the depths of the sinister yet comic malaise at the heart of our contemporary culture.

Oct 13, 2009

À propos de l'auteur

Joyce Carol Oates is a novelist, critic, playwright, poet and author of short stories and one of America’s most respected literary figures. She has written some of the most enduring fiction of our time, including We Were the Mulvaneys and Blonde. She is the Roger S. Berlind Distinguished Professor of Humanities at Princeton University and a recipient of the National Book Award and the PEN/Malamud Award for Excellence in Short Fiction.

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My Sister, My Love - Joyce Carol Oates



Red-Ink Heart

You do not belong here.


SKYLER HELP ME SKYLER I AM SO LONELY IN THIS PLACE SKYLER I AM so afraid I hurt so Skyler you won’t leave me in this terrible place will you Skyler?

Nine years, ten months, five days.

This child-voice in my head.



Me, I’m the surviving child of an infamous American family but probably after almost ten years you won’t remember me: Skyler.

It is a catchy name isn’t it? Skyler: sky.

A name specifically chosen by my father, who’d expected great things from me, as his firstborn child, and male.

A name, my father Bix Rampike believed, to set its bearer apart from the merely commonplace.

My last name—Rampike—has caused your eyelids to flutter, right? Ram-pike. Of which, unless you’re willfully obtuse, or pretending to be above it all (i.e., the ravaged earth of tabloid America), or mentally impaired, or really young, you’ve certainly heard.

Rampike? That family? The little girl skater, the one who was

And whoever did it, never

The parents, or a sex maniac, or

Somewhere in New Jersey, years ago, has to be at least a decade

Which is why—at last!—I’ve made myself begin whatever this will be, some kind of personal document—a unique personal document—not a mere memoir but (maybe) a confession. (Since in some quarters Skyler Rampike is a murder suspect you’d think that I have plenty to confess, wouldn’t you?) Fittingly, this document will not be chronological/linear but will follow a pathway of free association organized by an unswerving (if undetectable) interior logic: unliterary, unpretentious, disarmingly crude-amateur, guilt-ridden, appropriate to the survivor who abandoned his six-year-old sister to her fate sometime in the wee hours of January 29, 1997, in our home in Fair Hills, New Jersey. Yes I am that Rampike.

The older brother of the most famous six-year-old in the history of the United States if not all of North America if not all of the world for consider: how many six-year-olds you’ve ever heard of, girl or boy, American or otherwise, have such name and face recognition as Bliss Rampike; how many have more than 500,000 citations on the Internet; and how many are immortalized by more than three hundred Web sites/home pages/blogs maintained by loyal/crazed cultists? These are facts.

Irony is, this celebrity, which the parents of virtually every six-year-old in the country would die for, came to my sister only posthumously.

As for me, Skyler? Anonymous and forgettable as a soap bubble. O.K.: a weird-looking soap bubble. If you’ve followed the Bliss Rampike case, most likely you’ve only glimpsed Skyler in passing. The brother has been ignored in your haste to ogle, with prim-disapproving frowns, the prurient documents posted on the Internet, pirated Rampike family photos, illicitly acquired crime-scene photos and morgue photos and autopsy reports in addition to a seemingly inexhaustible supply of video footage of Bliss Rampike at the peak of her brief-but-dazzling career as the youngest-ever Little Miss Jersey Ice Princess 1996, skating to triumph on the cold-glittering ice rink of the Newark War Memorial Center. How like an angel in a strawberry-colored satin-and-sequin skating costume with a perky tulle skirt and white lace panties peeking out from beneath and tiny sparks—stardust—in the beautiful little girl’s ringleted blond hair as in her widened moist eyes, you feel your heart clench watching her, the small child alone on the ice, a chill lunar landscape glittering beneath her flashing skate blades, ah! there’s a leap that brings a collective gasp from the audience, there’s a spin on two skates, and now a spin on a single skate, these are tricky maneuvers even for older, champion skaters, these are precisely timed maneuvers in which the slightest hesitation or faltering or wincing-with-pain would be disastrous, and though you have seen this footage numberless times (if your misfortune is to be me, Skyler Rampike, that is), yet you break out in the proverbial cold sweat staring at the little girl on the ice, praying that she won’t slip and fall on the ice…But Bliss’s score will be posted at 5.9 out of a possible 6.

And all this to the soft-rock disco beat of the 1980s, Do What Feels Right.

(ANY FELLOW/SISTER SUFFERERS OF R.C.S.* AMONG MY READERS? IF SO, you will sympathize with my helpless need to repeat, re-view, and re-vise certain episodes from my past/my sister’s past ad nauseam.)

AT THE FRENZIED HEIGHT OF MY FAMILY’S FAME/INFAMY IN THE APPROXIMATE years 1997–1999, you could hardly avoid seeing heartrending photographs of the prodigy girl skater who’d been murdered in her own home in an affluent New Jersey community less than eighty miles west of the George Washington Bridge. You could hardly avoid seeing photographs of the little girl with her family, particularly the media favorite taken just before Christmas 1996 of the Rampikes seated before the ten-foot extravagantly decorated fir tree in the living room of their Fair Hills, New Jersey, part-restored Colonial: broad-shouldered good-looking Bruce Bix Rampike, who is Bliss’s daddy; strikingly dressed, eagerly smiling Betsey Rampike, who is Bliss’s mummy; little Bliss in a crimson velvet frock trimmed in white (ermine) fur, with the glittery Jersey Ice Princess tiara on her small head, white eyelet stockings and shiny black patent-leather ballerina flats and that famous sweet-shy-angel smile, between Daddy and Mummy and each is clasping Bliss firmly in the crook of an arm;† and, at the edge of the family portrait, in a vulnerable position to be handily cropped from the photo, the older, talentless brother Skyler.

By older I mean nine, in December 1996. Three years older than Bliss.

And now, astonishingly, I am thirteen years older than Bliss was when she died. Skyler? what has happened to you? Skyler what terrible thing has happened to you too?

I don’t think I will describe what I look like, just yet. An invisible narrator sounds like a good idea to me.

In the Christmas 1996 photograph of the Rampikes en famille—which was subsequently printed up as a Christmas card and was to be used by Mummy as the Rampikes’ official family photo replacing an earlier, outdated family photo taken before my sister was crowned Little Miss Jersey Ice Princess 1996—I am a runty little kid with a smile so eager it looks as if it had been sliced by a knife. In response to the photographer’s tedious reiterated command Smile please! And again—smile please! the runty little kid is smiling as if his jaw has become unhinged. I guess—false modesty aside—I’ve been told—I was cuteadorable—even a little gentleman—but no one called me angelic—still less magically photogenic like my sister, nor am I photogenic here. No Christmas outfit for me! No silver tiara! God knows what rumpled shirt, clip-on tie, itchy woollen blazer and trousers Mummy threw together for me to wear after having spent an anxious hour making up Bliss’s face which required making up in order to exude that air of china-doll beauty, fragility, and innocence for which Bliss Rampike had come to be known, and primping Bliss’s overly fine, limp hair in a cascade of ringlets to set off the tiara, subsequently dressing, undressing, and dressing her, not to mention the yet more anxious minutes Mummy was obliged to spend on herself in order to exude the glamorous/poised/yet warmly maternal look Betsey Rampike desired.* Hastily running a hairbrush through my hair, stooping to peer into my evasive eyes, in a lowered voice begging Skyler please darling for Mummy’s sake try not to twitch and make those awful faces! Try to look happy for Mummy’s sake this is Christmas at the Rampikes and Daddy is back with us and we want the world to see how proud we are of Bliss and what a beautiful happy family we are.

I tried, for Mummy’s sake. You will see how hard I tried.

You couldn’t see that I was crippled, I mean not in a still shot like this, but in such festive family photographs I look as if I might be crippled or deformed, hunched at the edge of the frame as if about to fall out. You feel an impulse to peer closely at me, to see if there might be telltale braces on my legs, or maybe I am cringing in a child-sized wheelchair but I am not.

Sure, I had physical problems. Mental too. And I was medicated as a child. (As who in Fair Hills, New Jersey, was not?)

All that you remember of Skyler Rampike, assuming that you remember me at all, is a prime-time television interview in which I didn’t appear. This, the notorious interview with high-profile TV personality B_____ W_____ which was broadcast several months after my sister’s death at a time when, following the advice of their lawyers, my parents were unavailable for interviews with Fair Hills police. Canny Ms. W_____ greeted Bix and Betsey Rampike with a show of warmth and sympathy for your tragic loss then proceeded to confront them with the fact that no evidence had ever been found at the scene of my sister’s death to suggest that anyone outside the Rampike family, any intruder or abductor, had killed their daughter: How do you explain this? Both my parents were said to have reacted with shock at such a question, for indeed B_____ W_____ had seemed so friendly initially; and before my father could compose himself to speak, my mother Betsey Rampike smiled bravely, saying, All that we can ‘explain’ is that God has put our faith to the test, and we will not fail that test. A stranger came into our lives and took our darling Bliss from us—that is all we know, Ms. W_____! For I did not murder Bliss, and my husband did not murder Bliss, and—pausing with a quick sharp frown between her eyebrows, a becoming flush in her cheeks—our son Skyler did not murder Bliss. And B_____ W_____ exclaimed, ‘Your son Skyler’—why, the boy is only nine years old, Mrs. Rampike, and my mother said, quickly, Well, he didn’t anyway.


* Black hole into which the despairing memoirist seems to have disappeared for an unaccountable period of time, approximately forty-eight hours of catatonic paralysis and amnesia irretrievable and forever lost to oblivion.


If you look closely at this much-downloaded photo, with a magnifying glass, and the monomaniacal scrupulousness required of a Bliss Rampike cultist, you will see that Bix Rampike, Daddy, has also cupped his left hand beneath Bliss’s foot, casually it seems.

* In this photograph, Betsey Rampike is only thirty-three years old but looks older, not so much in her face (which is a fleshy-Renoir girl’s face with flushed cheeks) as in her body. As Mummy confided in Skyler in the early years before Bliss came into their lives like a comet, she’d always battled a weight issue. In these years Mummy wore her brunette hair in a sleek hairdressy bouffant style out of a fear that her head would be perceived as too small for her body. And when her hair began to streak with gray, Mummy had it dyed at once. But this came later.



Americans crave knowledge of how-to; all I can offer is a firsthand account of how-not-to. (My original title for this document was Not All Survive: The Unexpurgated Story of Skyler Rampike. Alternate title: Down the Drain with Skyler Rampike.) No uplifting Christian tale of sin—suffering—enlightenment—redemption; the kind of searingheartrendinggenuinely transforming memoir featured on TV talk shows in the fleshy-female torpor of late-afternoon TV before the male-sobriety of Evening News.


sin (original & derivative)

evil (Holocaust-dimension & petty/crummy/banal)

crime/criminal acts (as defined by law)

depraved indifference to human life (ditto)

And I believe in redemption/forgiveness. For you others, if not for me.

The only person whose forgiveness can redeem me will have been dead, as of midnight tonight, nine years, ten months, and sixteen days.

Skyler where are you Skyler please help me

The tenth anniversary of my sister’s death is fast approaching. Which is the occasion for this document. I am squatting on the railroad tracks as the locomotive rushes toward me. I am staring into the blinding headlights as into a vision of God hypnotized/paralyzed/unable to move away.

Skyler it’s so dark in here

Skyler don’t leave me alone here

Skyler would you die in my place?

And that is the crucial question, isn’t it? Would you die in my place.

Reader, ask yourself: is there anyone for whom you would give up your life? Not a (mere) kidney transplant but a heart transplant? To save a loved one’s life?


Would give up life unhesitatingly for any loved one

Would give up life hesitatingly for any loved one

Would give up life for any loved one bearing my DNA

Would give up life for—maybe—one or two very special loved ones bearing my DNA

Would give up life for only just one very special loved one bearing my DNA

Sorry, loved ones: my own life is just too precious

(This is a confidential survey, don’t be alarmed! You have only to check the appropriate box, tear out the incriminating page and dispose of it and who’s to know the sobering truth you’ve discovered about yourself?)

(What a strange attraction I am feeling, to terminating this document prematurely: dousing myself in kerosene, lighting a match. A sanitizing death with ritual overtones that is also plenty showy/great filler for Tabloid TV.)

(We Rampikes! Veterans of Tabloid Hell who know which buttons to press.)

(Reader, don’t worry: I may be a self-centered kid but I am not a cruel kid wishing to set an entire house ablaze and burn up others in my funeral pyre, certainly I would take care to incinerateimmolate—myself in an outdoor setting. Preferably a bleakly romantic scene beside the moody Raritan River that isn’t too far to limp.) (Frankly yes, I would prefer a fiery-death scene on a high bank of the more picturesque Hudson River majestic and awe-inspiring beneath a storm-toss’d wintry sky, but the Hudson River is too damned far away, I’d have to borrow someone’s car.) (More practical: behind this rundown residence at the southern edge of the sprawling Rutgers campus there is an alley of trash cans, overflowing Dumpsters, a whirlygig—whirligig?—of litter as in a pastiche of outtakes from a David Lynch film laced with a pungent smell of drains, yet—so wonderfully!—not a quarter-mile away on Livingstone Avenue there looms the bravely gleaming faux-gold cross of the New Canaan Evangelical Church of Christ Risen where each Sunday morning and each Wednesday evening and at other, uncharted times fervent Christians come to worship their elusive God and His Only Begotten Son. In this alley, the faux-gold cross of an unfathomable Christian sect suggestively in view, what more appropriate setting for Skyler Rampike to erase himself from history, as his sister Bliss was erased nearly a decade before?)



NIGHTS ARE HARD. EARLY HOURS OF THE NIGHT BETWEEN 1 A.M AND 4:30 A.M. which was when the medical examiner of Morris County Dr. Virgil Elyse determined that my six-year-old sister Bliss died of blunt force head trauma though her body would not be found until nearly 8:30 A.M. and the cooling of the body was impeded by the warmth of the place (furnace room) in which the body was found. And so during those early morning hours at least on unmedicated nights the longtime suspect isn’t able to sleep nor do I try to sleep.

Amateurs don’t know how to tell stories, even their own life-stories brimming like tears in their brown-doggy eyes. I acknowledge this, for my instinct is to spew everything out immediately, and keep nothing back, except writing is linear and diachronical meaning that, if you cast down your first card X, this first card X has displaced all other possible cards—Y, Z, A, B etcetera. If I reveal that I am nineteen years old—nineteen going on ninety!—this blocks out the possibly more crucial fact that since my sister’s death in the early hours of January 29, 1997, there has never been any murderer indicted, still less prosecuted and tried; the notorious case remains openunsolved—in the trendy parlance of our time, cold. And why? Despite more than thirty thousand pages of police (Fair Hills PD, Morris County Sheriff, New Jersey State Police) and FBI documents, medical reports, and forensics reports? Reader, you will see why.

Not that I have read these reports. Much of the material is classified but even the available material is off-limits to me. For I intend to approach this subject from the inside purely, as one who lived through it. Trust me! I swear, I will tell only the truth as I have lived it.


Too late for already Bliss has been awakened in her bed. Someone has entered her room in stealth. The Mother Goose lamp on the bedside table is on, dim-lit. Just enough light to navigate by. Once this has begun, it cannot be stopped.

Cannot be stopped by Skyler who was sleeping in his bed at this time. Little punk-sized kid but nine years old.

Skyler who remains nine years old.

Already her small protesting mouth has been taped shut so that she can’t scream. Already her small wrists and ankles have been bound with duct tape so that she can’t struggle. Such a small child weighing forty-three pounds (as Dr. Elyse would inform us) she has been wrapped in a (pink cashmere) blanket removed from her bed, in haste she is being carried along a darkened corridor—past her brother Skyler’s room—to a darkened stairway and down this stairway to a yet darker stairs at the rear of the house into the basement as she struggles to free herself, and to breathe, desperate to breathe, a wild struggling animal desperate to breathe, heart beating frantically you could feel like a small fist Skyler help help me! but Skyler will not help because Skyler is sleeping in his bed in his room oblivious of his sister’s struggle so deep/dreamless/leaden a sleep you would think (possibly) the nine-year-old had been drugged for his frightened mother will have a difficult time waking him hours later and now it has been nine years, ten months, and twenty days and still the accursèd child has not fully wakened.


…AND NOW OUR NEXT LITTLE CONTENDER FOR MISS ATLANTIC CITY ICE Capades 1995 here at the fan-tas-tic new Trump Hotel & Casino, Atlantic City, New Jersey, ladiez ’n’ gentlemen here is a little-girl skater who is truly little no word but exquisite! angelic! fan-tas-tic! there is a gasp from the audience what a luscious sight: platinum-blond cotton-candy hair cascading in curls she’s wearing a black-lace Spanish veil mantilla d’you call it? qui-ite a dramatic costume for a five-year-old one of the most eye-catching of this fan-tas-tic evening the audience is clearly appreciative! this little skater is a real pro left shoulder daringly bared tight black-sequined bodice black taffeta skirt very very short black lace matching panties peeking out beneath black eyelet stockings and sexy black leather high-top skates like boots with crimson appliqué roses! Look at those skate-blades flash this little girl is skating/dancing to the pulse-quickening Latin beat Begin the Beguine applause for MISS BLISS RAMPIKE of Fair Hills, New Jersey Miss Tots-on-Ice Debutante Winner 1994 Tiny Miss StarSkate 1995 runner-up last-month’s Miss New England Figure Skating Challenge 1995 what skating form, ladiez ’n’ gentlemen! look at those graceful glides Miss Bliss is positively angelic the crowd adores her ah! a near-perfect spin triple figure-eights and is it a jump spin? and Miss Bliss Rampike has executed the tricky maneuver bravely this might be the highlight so far of our evening here at Trump Hotel & Casino the audience is at the edge of their seats fierce competition for the gold trophy, $5,000 prize, photo and résumé on all Trump Hotel & Casino promotional materials for a solid year The Don himself is rumored to be in the audience in-cog-nit-o could be, ladiez ’n’ gentlemen we have here a future Olympic gold medalist a future Sonja Henie (winner of ten world titles: Sonja Henie) ooops spoke too soon did I just a wee falter a moment’s hesitation quickly the skater has recovered from wobbling now spinning on two skates without wobbling now a traveling spin hold your breath ladiez ’n’ gentlemen this can be tricky judges are taking note judges are impressed judges will factor in the difficulty of these maneuvers in their scoring now is it? a flying spin such a sweet smile! but the mantilla seems to be slipping from Bliss’s head uh-oh looks like a—jump spin?—executed just a little uncertainly is Bliss favoring her left ankle? rumors of a previous injury to that ankle this is a brave little girl listen to that applause Miss Bliss Rampike along with incredible Miss Kiki Chang last year’s Trump Hotel & Casino Skating Capades champ (Junior Division) are clearly the audience’s favorites so far this evening uh-oh! gosh-darn mantilla is on the ice let’s hope Bliss’s skates don’t get tangled in the gosh-darn thing now a flying spin no hesitating wincing when she lands on her left skate throbbing beat of Begin the Beguine pulses ever higher, louder a second flying leap, oops! that was a shame this is a brave little girl Miss Bliss Rampike has recovered her poise not a quitter tears spilling down those doll-cheeks she is not a quitter the audience is hushed the audience is deeply moved the audience has erupted into applause the audience is on its feet let’s hope The Don is truly among us tonight in-cog-nit-o or otherwise a fan-tas-tic performance let’s have a final round of applause for Miss Bliss Rampike five years old of Fair Hills, New Jersey a very brave little girl with a very big future



In two days Bliss would be seven years old. And I was nine years old. At bedtime of January 28, 1997.

Skyler please Mummy won’t know

Mummy frowned at the little red-ink tattoos that were my specialty at this time.* It wasn’t unreasonable of Mummy, like any Mummy, especially any Fair Hills, New Jersey (where spotless surfaces, high-glisten polish, understated expense were the norm), Mummy to object to ink-tattoos on her children’s bodies that were vulgar and messy and hard to scrub off. So, inking a tiny red heart on the palm of Bliss’s left hand, to match one of my own, had to be done in secret, as in secret I tattooed tiny figures on my own hands, and in other less visible parts of my body (armpits, belly, pinched little belly button).

Secrets! So many.

Daddy was away. Ever more, Daddy was away: Singapore, Tokyo, Bangkok, Sydney—or maybe only just New York City where he had an apartment. Or, so mysteriously, Daddy was somewhere closer, yet Daddy was away.

We were not to speak about Daddy at such times, was the message in Mummy’s fierce eyes. We were not to ask about Daddy.

And yet: Daddy might suddenly arrive home. As in a Disney movie of fantastic transformations and reversals there might come Daddy bounding up the stairs just in time to tuck little Skyler and little Bliss in their beds; there might come rueful-Daddy, beaming-happy-Daddy, teary-eyed-with-love-Daddy, and (maybe! these were the happiest times) Daddy and Mummy clasping hands and Mummy bravely smiling as if Daddy had not ever been away; and Mummy had not ever locked herself in her bathroom sobbing and muttering to herself and refusing to answer the door upon which Skyler shyly knocked: "Mum-my?"

Skyler sometimes I feel so bad

Nobody loves me Skyler do you love me Skyler?

In the Rampike household in those crucial years there were two kinds of time: when Bliss was skating, and when Bliss was not-skating. When Bliss was skating there was excitement in the air like static electricity before a storm and when Bliss was not-skating—if she’d hurt herself for instance, or had been sidelined by phantom pain—there was a feeling of dread in the air like static electricity before a storm.

And so always there was: static electricity before a storm!

The red-ink heart would protect her, Bliss believed.

Sky-ler please? Mummy won’t know

Mummy had trained Bliss to open her cobalt-blue eyes wide and to smile in a certain way not to grin—not to grimace—but to smile shyly, prettily. Smile just enough to show her beautiful pearly teeth. Make me a little red heart like yours Skyler please?

In our senior physics class at Basking Ridge we were wittily told by our instructor that Time is

—finite; or,

—infinite; or,

flowing, and bearing us with it; or,

static: a fourth dimension in which everything that will ever happen has already happened and continues to happen and could not have not happened and how then could any of it have been prevented?

The career began with Tots-on-Ice, Meadowlands, Valentine’s Day 1994. The career would end with Hershey’s Kisses Girls’ Ice-Skating Festival, Hershey, Pennsylvania, January 11, 1997.

Skyler please a red-ink heart and so I grabbed my sister’s moist little hand and inked into her palm a little red heart to match my own

* Must’ve been, already by the age of nine Skyler was in the thrall of ritualisticobsessive-compulsive—behavior, especially in regard to his puny little male body. Not just tiny valentine-hearts the budding psychopath inked on his skin but iridescent-purple snakes with bared fangs, shiny black spiders and scorpions, blood-dripping daggers, grinning skulls and even, in shameless imitation of a posse of older boys at Fair Hills Day School, Nazi swastikas. (How tricky it is, to tattoo a fingernail-sized swastika in black ballpoint ink, in some hidden part of your kiddie-body! Never could get the swastika right.) How horrified Mummy would have been, and how disgusted Daddy would have been!—but they never knew.



I suppose I don’t blame you. Even the reader who hasn’t bought this book but is only skimming it—please, not too rapidly!—in a bookstore aisle has a right to see whoever the hell it is who’s addressing him/her. For obviously the advantage for most writers is that no one sees them. The writer is invisible, which confers power.

First thing you’d notice about Skyler Rampike, for instance limping along Livingstone Avenue, which intersects with Pitts Street, is he’s a freaky kid.

The hair, especially.

After Bliss’s death, my wavy fawn-colored hair began to fall out in clumps. Soon my hard little head was bald, my zombie-eyes were stark and staring. Cancer victim? Chemo? Kiddie-leukemia? After about a year hair began to grow back but it was the weird metallic-zinc color it is now that looks as if it might be radioactive, and glow in the dark; no longer wavy fine little-boy hair but coarse and thick like that perverse species of weed said to thrive in toxic soil. Often I’m mistaken for an older guy and/or the bearer of a particularly repulsive disease (leprosy, AIDS). Through school it was my teachers’ strategy to sort of not-see me in the classroom and more recently, now I’m an older adolescent grown scrawny-tall people are wary of me on the street.

This zinc-hair is so stiff and bristly, it’s like sprouting quills from my head. Mostly I wear it shaved close to the skull. (A bony, bumpy skull! And my scalp reddened from rashes provoked by scratching.) Sometimes I’ve worn the hair in a funky little pigtail at the nape of my neck with the sides of my head shaved Nazi-style, and that gets people’s attention. So maybe, though I’m humble in spirit, yearning to be as a little child, at the same time I’m an arrogant son of a bitch not unlike my father Bruce Bix Rampike except not Daddy’s size and lacking Daddy’s so-called charisma.

(Do you hate the word charisma as much as I do? Yet to find a viable synonym isn’t easy.)

The most astonishing thing is, Skyler Rampike with his zinc-quill hair in or out of a funky pigtail has proved attractive to certain sicko individuals both female and male. Mummy had begged me to allow her to dye my hair back to its former color—Skyler, if Bliss saw you now, so changed, so ravaged-looking, she wouldn’t recognize you—but I told her no.

For, if you believed in God, you could say that God has sent my zinc-hair to me as a sign.

Mummy stared at me not daring to touch me not daring to ask A sign of what, Skyler?—for fear that I would say A sign that I am damned, Mummy. The mark of Satan on your little man’s head.

Another thing you’d notice is that freaky-Skyler walks with a limp, all that remains of his child-prodigy-gymnast days (of which more later, for those readers with a morbid interest in the just punishments of those who dare to go for the gold). Some days this limp is scarcely discernible to the naked eye but at other times there’s no disguising the limp, on bone-chilling winter days I walk with a cane dragging my stiff (right) leg throbbing with pain like old childhood memories. For years it was quite a risible sight—risible being a fancy word for hilarious—to the crude, cruel eyes of prepubescents, when, a runty prepubescent himself, Skyler Rampike limped along with a dwarf-cane, like an antic three-legged insect. (Now, you should see me limp along with a man-sized cane swiftly and belligerently and betraying little awareness of alarmed fellow pedestrians forced to leap out of my way; though, conversely, or perversely, when crossing a street with or against traffic, if I’m walking with my cane I take my own damned sweet time to cross, you bet. Dare to run me over, you bastards!)

As anxious Mummy foresaw, by the time I was eleven I’d more or less obliterated the cuteadorable—little-boy-face of the nine-year-old Skyler, by compulsively grinning/grimacing and making what Mummy called pain faces. By tenth grade, in prep school, my face had become a boy’s face bizarrely overlaid with a mask of snarls like tree roots. Pastor Bob has said Skyler your soul shines in your eyes, you can never hide your soul but is this true?

Yet—to my astonishment!—and disgust!—there are plenty of sickos out there in cyberspace who claim to find Skyler Rampike attractive—sexyseductivemysterious—and who feature him on lurid Web sites in which images of my ravaged face and Nazi-zinc hair are featured above such captions as





* This enigmatic little chapter is all that remains of dozens of scribbled pages written over the last seventy-two hours. For I was mistaken the other day, not a panic attack but a full-fledged manic attack overcame me now that I am permanently off psychotropic drugs.



That’s to say, Skyler’s most recent Sobriety Pledge.

After writing the preceding chapter, I caved. Sure it was a measly little chapter and sure, any one of you could have tossed it off in a few hours, yet, for Skyler, it was gut-twisting/nerve-wracking/sick-making and so Skyler caved, on Day 59. Having endured fifty-nine miserable days, in the very early hours of the sixtieth day, Skyler relapsed with some suspicious-looking hydrocodone (generic for Vicodin) scored from some hip-hop black guys of my acquaintance.

As Daddy used to say with sheepish-shit-eating-Daddy smile Forgive me my foe paws as you’d wish to be forgiven yours, hey?

A VERY LONG TIME SINCE I WAS NINE YEARS OLD. AND THEY SENT ME AWAY when Bliss was found, and I never saw my sister again, and my hair fell out in handfuls, and when it grew back in, it grew in wrong. And something in my brain is wrong.



This is my (proposed) beginning. I have written this sentence numerous times. I have written this sentence on several sheets of paper hoping to jump-start a second sentence, and, in time, a third, but so far, so far only this single sentence has emerged. But I am Sober again now, and I will remain Sober. I swear.

Though Pastor Bob has suggested that it might be easier to begin in medias race* and not at the beginning since there is something terrifying about beginnings as about the numeral (if it is a numeral, strictly speaking) zero.

A child can’t comprehend zero. As a child can’t comprehend the vast Dumpster of time before he/she was born.

I am Sober again, did I record this fact? Six capsules of hydrocodone (Warning: May cause dizziness, heart palpitations, liver failure) in a gesture of bravado I flushed down the toilet like a character on TV!

(Except, the damn toilet, shared by several of us up here on the third floor, doesn’t truly flush. The capsules swirled ’round and ’round teasingly but did not go down and for all I know, and believe me, dear reader, you don’t want to know either, one of my fellow tenants fished them out for his own purposes.)

Just chance, a lone newspaper page blown underfoot, in the damp-gritty grass up the block. A vacant lot gone to rubble and weeds and every kind of litter including a section of page twenty-two of the Newark Star-Ledger, December 2, 2006, squinting up at me with a ghoulish smile was Dr. Virgil Elyse.

Not that I knew what the longtime medical examiner of Morris County (which is where we lived, in Fair Hills; New Brunswick is in Middlesex County) looked like. I never did.

Dr. Elyse had dissected, as affably he remarked to an interviewer on the occasion of his retirement (at age sixty-eight), somewhere in the neighborhood of twelve thousand, six hundred corpses in his forty-three-year career. Quickly I scanned the blurred columns of newsprint to see the name Rampike leap out at me as I knew it would, and the name Bliss, and quickly I kicked the newspaper away.

But not before seeing most famous case. Most controversial.

Though I had not ever seen Dr. Elyse with his glittery pinch-ney (?) eyeglasses before yet it seemed to me in that instant that yes I had seen him. In that confused interlude after my sister’s death when little Skyler was heavily medicated and slept much of the day waking only agitatedly at night between the hours of 1 A.M. and 4 A.M. lying paralyzed in his bed seeing Dr. Elyse approach Skyler’s bed which had become a gurney as the air in his bedroom had become the chill formaldehyde air of the Morris County Morgue. There came Dr. Elyse (at the elder Rampikes’ bidding?) in rubber-soled shoes with a squeak, in soiled white butcher’s apron tied over a civilian suit, wearing those rimless pinch-ney glasses that magnified his eyes like a fly’s as horribly he lifted lifted a hacksaw to saw open Skyler’s skull with the intention of deftly running a soldering iron through his brain (at the elder Rampikes’ bidding?). Which is why ever after Skyler has trouble remembering.

And trouble with math! Where previously, though dyslexic as hell, he had not.

In rehab the meth-heads said: Nothing like crystal meth! Crystal meth is the high every other drug is trying to achieve but can’t.

So why are you here, Skyler wanted to ask. If the high is that terrific. If the high is worth dying for, why’d anyone want to live?

Skyler has no choice, Skyler has to live. One day, Skyler has to reveal all he knows of his sister Bliss’s life/death. It is Skyler Rampike’s responsibility.

(Did I note that, when Skyler was busted and sent into rehab, he weighed 139 pounds, five-feet-eleven in his bare feet? His hair was shaved close to his skull and zinc-quills had begun to grow back in rash-like clusters. Even the meth-heads tattooed in flaming skulls and black-widow spiders steered clear of Skyler Rampike.)

Truth is: I’m scared of crystal meth. It’s a class thing.

Fair Hills, New Jersey, is a long way from Jersey City, New Jersey.

Mostly, we don’t snort, sniff, inject. Needles scare the hell out of us. We take pills just like our moms do.

Just legal drugs in the suburbs: the brands you can buy in drugstores.

Even if you acquire them on the street, still these are legal drugs. Some doctor, somewhere, licensed M.D., he’d have prescribed them for you, or she. It’s a higher class of criminal.

Pastor Bob said: Drugs are a crutch, son. You know that.

Told Pastor Bob: Why’d I need a crutch, I use a cane.

Told Pastor Bob none of his business, was it?

Told Pastor Bob you don’t know me. Stop looking at me.

Told Pastor Bob go away, man.

Pastor Bob paid no heed. Pastor Bob said: That suffering in your face, son. Immediately I saw. Know what I saw, son? In your face?

Told Pastor Bob noooo. Told Pastor Bob don’t want to know.

Pastor Bob said: In your face is Christly suffering, son. In one young as you.

Told Pastor Bob: Bullshit.

Pastor Bob said: Hear your voice, son? The fear in it.

Told Pastor Bob: Fear and trembling? Sickness unto death?

Told Pastor Bob: It’s old. It’s been done. Nobody believes that bullshit.

Pastor Bob said: You must unburden your soul, son. You must tell your story.

Told Pastor Bob hell I’m dyslexic. Or something.

Pastor Bob said: Dictate your story to me, son. The story of your lost sister Bliss. In your living voice, son. We can begin today.

Told Pastor Bob there is no your story. Noooo.

Told Pastor Bob he had to be crazy. A religious lunatic like who’s it—Kirky-gard. Bullshit nobody believes except pathetic assholes with I.Q.’s drooping around their ankles. You fat fuck Pastor Bob, I said. Don’t touch me.

Calmly Pastor Bob said: Your sister Bliss is in heaven, son. Yet even in heaven our loved ones suffer, sometimes. If we are unhappy, they suffer. You must put your sister’s soul at rest, son. You know that.

Told Pastor Bob he wasn’t hearing me, nobody can ask such things of me, nobody in all the world has dared ask such things of me, nobody not ever!—and Pastor Bob winced at the sick-Christ fury in my face but clasped me in his beefy big arms till I quieted saying: Son, you are mistaken. Trust me.*

* Classy Latin phrase for in the middlemidst—of action. In medias race is how most of us live our blinkered, stumbling, clueless lives not knowing where the hell we’re going, nor even where the hell we’ve been.

* Hell, I know: I’m wincing, too. Such clumsily executed scenes are painful to read, yet more painful to write. And yet more painful to have lived…As an amateur writer who has lived a mostly amateur life, I wish that this document contained more elegantly turned passages, as I wish that it contained a more refined dramatis personie [sic?] but in confessional documents you must work with what you have.



Not his sister but his mother is pulling at him, in the confusion of that long-ago morning that was no morning but inky-black night as at the bottom of the sea.

Mummy with disheveled hair, agitated eyes. Mummy in one of her silky nightgowns and Mummy’s large soft swaying breasts straining against the fabric, Skyler has glimpsed through a doorway Daddy gripping and kneading Mummy in playful-Daddy hands and now as then Skyler looks quickly away.

Skyler? where is

Near the floor of the sea such bizarre life-forms all mouth, sharp glittery teeth, fins, spiny backbones. Yet such a sweet-groggy sleep for a child to be wakened from, Skyler understands that something is very wrong for Mummy is not so angry, Mummy is upset and confused and Skyler tries to push Mummy away but Mummy is too strong for him, with a small exasperated-Mummy cry she pulls back the bedsheets where Skyler has been lying hunched in a pretzel-twist on his left side, both hands pressed between his knees and his knees drawn up toward his chest like a creature not yet hatched.

Skyler is she in here hiding in here?

Frantic Mummy checks the foot of Skyler’s bed as if Skyler’s six-year-old sister might be hiding there, somehow. With a sob/grunt Mummy kneels to check beneath the bed, stumbles then to Skyler’s closet, switches on the light and paws through Skyler’s hanging things, kneels and gropes about the floor. Muttering to herself Where! Where is and returning then stumbling like a drunken woman to Skyler standing beside his bed, dazed and frightened in pajamas, shivering barefoot, that look in Mummy’s eyes, the alarm in Mummy’s voice, briskly Mummy pulls Skyler out of the room, across the hall to Bliss’s room, obviously Mummy has already been in Bliss’s room looking for her, Bliss’s bed is empty, Mummy has been tearing at the bedspread and at the sheets and Mummy is murmuring to herself as often when he is alone Skyler murmurs to himself for Mummy’s thoughts are spilling out of Mummy’s head like skittering bats. Skyler wonders: Where is Daddy? Has Daddy taken Bliss away in the night? Is it Bliss’s birthday outing in New York City, where Daddy and Bliss have gone? Skyler is confused, Skyler will remember none of this clearly, the events of this night about which he will be questioned and will question himself though recalling how in Bliss’s room (formerly a nursery with a door in the wall like a magic door opening into Mummy and Daddy’s big bedroom) there is a lamp on Bliss’s bedside table in the shape of Mother Goose which had once been Skyler’s lamp when he’d been a baby, this is Bliss’s special lamp which has to be turned on at night or Bliss can’t sleep or, if she sleeps, she will have nightmares of ugly-shaped things that hide beneath her bed as in the murky penumbra beyond the brightly lit ice rinks where the crowd erupts in spontaneous applause at the mere sight of Miss Tots-on-Ice Debutante, Tiny Miss StarSkate, Little Miss Jersey Ice Princess except it is a different time now, Mummy is not joining in the applause now but gripping Skyler’s arm as if somehow Skyler is to blame as Mummy stares at Bliss’s small bed with its white satin headboard, beautiful frosted-pink satin spread decorated with white ice-skate appliqués, now tangled on the floor with the bedclothes, and Bliss’s pillow looks as if it has been thrown down, hard. And there is the smell.

Bad girl! Not again

On purpose to spite me

Both Mummy and Skyler see the stained mattress, and smell the sharp ammoniac smell of urine, and worse-than-urine, for there are dark mud-colored star-shaped smears on one of the white linen sheets. And Mummy is furious, or is Mummy frightened?—digging her nails into Skyler’s thin shoulders inside his flannel pajama top, Mummy pleads with him Skyler what have you done to Bliss? Where have you taken your little sister?


Happiest Little Girl on Earth



There was Skyler, but not Bliss. Not yet Bliss!

No one knows this. No one has recorded this. Of the tens of thousands of Bliss-cultists who have polluted cyberspace with their crazed factoids and perve-rantings not one of them knows this: that in the beginning it was Skyler who’d been meant to be the star. It was Skyler who’d been meant to be the figure-skating prodigy of Fair Hills, New Jersey. Or some sort of prodigy.


A very cold morning in the second week of December 1991. Mummy was breathless, and Mummy was excited, and Mummy was wearing her long red quilted winter coat lined with goose-feather down so it weighed scarcely anything, and on Mummy’s head, pulled down snug over Mummy’s dark hair, was a knitted cap of vivid rainbow colors, a cap with a floppy eight-inch tassel like something a TV cartoon character or a clown might wear to make you smile. Unless I was mistaken, for Skyler was so frequently mistaken, peering up anxiously at the giant adults who surrounded him looming over him with their cryptic smiles, their frowns, their grimaces, their tics and twitches and mysterious signals you could not ever hope to decode, probably yes, four-year-old Skyler was wrong about Mummy’s new cap, the rainbow-knit cap with the floppy tassel was intended to be stylish, recently purchased at The Village Arctic Shoppe on Main Street where in the shoppe’s show window it was displayed on anorexic-adolescent-girl models with skis or ice-skates slung over their shoulders. Mummy’s new tassel-cap with its rainbow stripes was serious.

—our secret, Skyler, which you must never tell Daddy, you know what a cruel tease Daddy can be. Skyler, please?

Skyler’s eager little head nodded Yes! Yes Mummy.

—scolds me for ‘wasting gas’! ‘Never staying home’! Next thing, he’ll be checking the what-is-it on my car—‘odormeter.’ You know, tells how many miles you’ve driven? A little gauge, on the dash?

Skyler nodded, less certain now. Wasn’t sure he knew what an odormeter was but he knew what’s called a dash.

This little drive of ours, with a—destination. Which I think you will like, Skyler!

This little drive was a drive we’d begun to take frequently together, Mummy and me, ostensibly into town on errands of Mummy’s but by a leisurely, looping, circuitous route that took us miles into the scenic countryside north and east of the Historic Village of Fair Hills, New Jersey (to which we’d come to live only a few months ago, in September) and yes, often there was a destination to which Mummy headed as if helplessly, by these circuitous routes. Daddy doesn’t need to know, Skyler. ‘What Daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt us.’ Mummy laughed, with a shivery shudder.

Skyler! Shove your stubby little arms into these sleeves.

Damn: I’ve forgotten to set the scene.

We were in the garage. We’d snuck out into the garage through a back door opening off the kitchen and we were whispering. That is, Mummy was whispering. Often Mummy whispered, it had come to seem natural for Mummy to whisper which meant that you should whisper back or better yet just nod your head Yes Mummy! For there was some urgency here. The phone had been ringing much of the morning but not one of the calls was the call Mummy had been waiting for, only just tradesmen, telephone solicitors, Mummy wasn’t answering any more calls but would let the calls be picked up by the answering service which Mummy would check later which would be soon enough for Mummy, who didn’t want to sabotage this special day. In her cheery-jokey mood already zipped up into the quilted red coat that made Mummy look like—well, a bobbing red balloon, and with her gaily colored tassel flopping over her forehead, Mummy paused to kiss Skyler’s cute-kid snub-nose though the nose was probably leaking, as Daddy complained the poor damn kid seems always to have a cold. Shhh! Don’t want Maria to hear us. Hurriedly Mummy was bundling me into a fleece-lined little parka with a hood made tight and snug, almost too tight and too snug, by drawstrings at the neck manipulated by Mummy. And on my stubby four-year-old’s legs warm flannel sweatpants, and on my stubby feet waterproof boots. Both the parka and the sweatpants still had tags attached for they were new purchases from The Village Arctic Kids Shoppe.

Skyler, do you hear—? Is it—

Mummy’s eyes widened in an expression of guilty fear. We listened.

Faintly in the distance, maybe: a wan, wailing sound. Could be a siren. Could be an airplane high overhead. Could be the wind in the 150-year-old brick chimney about which Mrs. Cuttlebone the perky/canny real estate agent who’d sold Mr. and Mrs. Rampike the overpriced house had nervously joked: Ghosts! All our ‘historic’ Fair Hills houses have them. But the danger passed, no one opened the door behind us. No one stared at Mummy with dark-quizzical eyes and inquired politely in heavily accented English when did Mrs. Rampike think she would be returning?

"—will be all right. Doesn’t need me. Nobody needs me. I need me."

In our three-car garage only two vehicles remained that morning. For Daddy was away at Baddaxe Oil corporate headquarters and had taken his shiny black Lincoln Continental, that Mummy was not encouraged to drive. Left behind was Daddy’s even bigger and heavier steely-gray Land Rover that was so large and so tricky to maneuver, only Daddy could be trusted to drive it. But there was Mummy’s lime-green Chevrolet Impala (a ’94 model that Daddy bought for Mummy to cheer my gal up when we’d moved from Parsippany to Fair Hills where Mummy had not wanted to move) that Mummy drove into town at least once a day. It was in the backseat of the lime-green Impala that Mummy had placed, with no explanation, a bulky zip-up satchel. Sharp-eyed Skyler asked, Mummy, what’s in there?

Was it Baby? Baby Sister? Puny little Edna Louise? That Mummy did not want, or anyway did not want so soon after Skyler? That Mummy is tired of, for crying all the time, for being colicky and keeping Mummy awake, a fretful baby, a homely baby, a blue-bug-eyed baby, a baldie baby with only a few blond hairs on her head, a silly girl-baby missing a real pee-pee like Skyler’s, an exasperating baby demanding always to be fed (chalky-milk formula prepared by Maria), demanding always to have her diaper changed, needing to be bathed and again fed, nappy-nap time and diaper changed, bath, towel-dry, new diaper, all babies do is sleep pee and poop and shriek like a cat being killed and babies try to win your heart by cooing and smiling and reaching their astonishing little baby-fingers at you but babies are SO BORING unable even to say their names or walk upright or go potty in the bathroom using the flush. Not like Skyler who is Mummy’s little man!

Behind the wheel of the ’94 lime-green Chevy Impala, Mummy was humming. Here, you could see that Betsey Rampike was happy.

Let’s get buckled in, Skyler. ‘Safety first.’

Since Skyler was still a little too small to sit comfortably in the passenger’s seat beside Mummy, Mummy had placed a cushion there for him. (Was this legal? The seat belt fit Skyler kind of loosely.) So proud to have graduated from the silly strap-in kiddy-car-seat in the back that, when homely Edna Louise had to be transported, was used now exclusively for her.

Surreptitiously Skyler glanced into the backseat at the satchel. Was it stirring? Was there a living creature inside? Was it Baby?

Skyler asked another time what was in the satchel and Mummy said with a mysterious smile he’d find out, soon.

Here we go!

The Chevy Impala emerged out of the garage rear-end-first like an explosion.

THE WINTER AIR WAS BLINDING-BRIGHT. OVERHEAD THE SKY WAS A painted-looking robin’s-egg blue. On the ground snow lay in sculpted drifts and swirls vivid-white as detergent or Styrofoam. (Hey forgive me: this is how the memory is coming to me in a blinding rush like Dexedrine. And my heart is hammering, too: 260 beats a minute!) You had to conclude that, if there were airborne toxins in the idyllic hills of north-central New Jersey where the wealthy live, said toxins blown by mischievous winds from the industrial corridor fifty miles to the east, out of fire-rimmed smokestacks lining the New Jersey Hellpike, these toxins were magically transformed into the most dazzling-white snow. Mummy fumbled to put on stylish oversized gold-plastic-framed dark glasses, and Skyler blinked eager watery eyes. Each little drive with Mummy was an adventure!

Serpentine Ravens Crest Drive! In my fevered brain, where I travel ceaselessly like an astronaut reeling about in space, there’s the dreamlike scroll of neighbors’ houses (neighbors who were utter strangers and their houses barely visible from the road) and the curves, turns and

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Ce que les gens pensent de My Sister, My Love

19 évaluations / 18 Avis
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  • (4/5)
    "I've made myself begin whatever this will be, some kind of personal document--a 'unique personal document'--not a mere memoir but (maybe) a confession. (Since in some quarters, Skyler Rampyke is a murder suspect you'd think I have plenty to confess,wouldn't you?) Fittingly, this document will not be chronological/linear but will follow a pathway of free association organized by an unswerving (if undetectable) interior logic: unliterary, unpretentious, disarmingly crude-amateur, guilt-ridden, appropriate to the 'survivor' who abandoned his six-year-old sister to her 'fate' sometime in the 'wee hours' of January 29, 1997, in our home in Fair Hills, New Jersey. Yes, I am that Rampike."This book is Joyce Carol Oates's imagined version of the Jon-Benet Ramsey murder. In the book, Jon-Benet is Bliss Rampike, a precocious ice-skater who was murdered at the age of six in the basement of the family home. The story is narrated by Skyler Rampike, Bliss's brother, who was nine years old at the time of the murder, and who is telling the story ten years later.The Rampike family is needless to say dysfunctional. Patsy Rampike could reasonably described as mentally ill, and her husband Bix is a philanderer who is usually missing in action.Skyler describes life before Bliss, life during her brief period of fame, and most importantly Skyler narrates brilliantly the effects the murder had on the Rampike family, and in particular on him. While the parents were initially suspected of the murder, and Bliss had a stalker who may have been implicated in her murder, in large part the suspicions of guilt were directed to Skyler.This is one of the best Oates books I have read. It is an incisive and dark pyschological study of two flawed individuals who should never have had children, and whose actions created deeply unhappy and disturbed children.However, the book is not unceasingly bleak. In fact, substantial portions of it skewer the life styles of upwardly mobile social climbers. The descriptions of Skyler's disastrous "play-dates," organized by his mother to further her social ambitions are particularly funny. At least until we stop to consider how difficult these episodes must have been to Skyler.
  • (4/5)
    JCP is one of my favorite authors , who never fails to deliver be it, a tale of gothic wonder, or this modern tale of a family in stark dysfunction. This was a riveting journey into the world of comparative skating reminiscent of Jon Benet and the pageantry of Young Beauty Princesses.
  • (4/5)
    This story gives me a lot to think about upbringing, parental ambitions and the disastrous consequences. Also this is a fiction based on an unsolved murder case there is so much truth in it how a lot of children are suffering from parental ambitions be it in a sportive or art aspect or the offspring's schooling for their future career and becoming rich and famous. Everything is planned in advance without asking the children if they would like it this way. There is no room left for individual fulfilment neither any possibility to meet friends on their own because playdates are organised by their mothers. So, it's no wonder that the kids and the adolescents need therapy to survive. It's a shame what damages parents can do.
  • (1/5)
    JUST TO ASSURE THE READER: YOUR EXPERIENCE OF THE BOOK WILL BE DIFFERENT TO MINE (1). Never will you know how many “anonymous reader-reviewers” (including your cybercesspoolspace so-called friends) will press the “NO-this-is-not-helpful” button on your review and if asked why, why say NO, why hurt another person, the answer is Because you and I are both anonymous to each other, that’s why.(1) And, in case you’re wondering at the postmodernist/strange/odd shape this review will take, the canny reader (of which, yes, there are some) will know why. The rest of you, like poor befuddled me: read on! All will be revealed.This long (very long/enormously long/mind-numbingly long)(2) book of nearly 600 pages is, despite the very prominent legal disclaimer that says “it is a work of the imagination solely” (2a) Oates’ re-invention of the well-publicised Colorado murder of child model JonBenét Ramsey.(2) Perhaps I’m being too harsh here. What do you think, reader? Has five long days reading this book soured my perception? I did, after all, find the first 200 pages a fascinating work of genius. Perhaps I suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) or I Like My Books Shorter Disorder (ILMBSD) or even (horrible thought) Can’t Concentrate For Too Long Disorder (CFFTLD) which negatively impacted my enjoyment? (2a) Hard to believe that the real “infamous” All-American family on which this rambling/frenetic/dare-I-say-it boring novel is based didn’t sue the author. The parallels between the JonBenét Ramsey case and Skyler Rampike’s narrative of the murder of his younger sister, 6 year-old ice skating champion Bliss (previously known as Edna Louise) are remarkably similar (Remember this character, readers, she is important).Told “mainly” or “mostly” from the viewpoint of almost 20-year-old dropout/nutty/creepy Skyler Rampike looking back on his childhood leading up the life–defining moment when his young celebrity sister (Do you remember her?) is murdered. Leaping back and forth between his present and past (before-murder past and after-murder past), it’s difficult to find a single appealing character. Perhaps the childrens’ neuroses can be blamed on the parents. But, as Pastor Bob finally says to Skyler when the (somewhat predictable) mystery of Who Killed JonBenét?(3) is finally revealed and Skyler turns to him for advice, “You’re not a child, Skyler, what do you expect me to tell you?” So, dear readers, can you see where I’m going with this? Despite the occasional glimpse - and the surprisingly optimistic note of his story’s ending - Skyler is as unappealing and screwed-up as the rest of the people inhabiting this bitter, dark (and in no way as tasty as bitter dark chocolate) novel. (3) Oh NO! Did I say JonBenét? I meant Who Killed Bliss Rampike?The caustic humour stopped being funny long before the end. The only irony I could find was that in Oates’ malicious portrayal of the Tabloid Media (4) she condemned the very thing she does herself in this novel (and BLONDE and BLACK WATER). She takes a personal tragedy (and even if the family were involved in the poor kid’s murder, it’s still a personal tragedy) and picks picks picks over it (like Skyler in his not-good moments picks picks picks his face and scalp raw). Like the tabloids she condemns, Oates puts her own spin on it, never mind how it will affect those who are intimately involved in the story (and we all know, despite the LARGE legal disclaimer, it’s the Ramsey family, of which the father and brother of poor JonBenét are still around somewhere in America.) (4) Admittedly the Gutter Press should stay where they belong…in the gutter. The Press has such power and that power is too often abused and corrupted in the heady rush to publish an ever-more salacious story. But what of the readers who buy those scandal sheets? Just like Bix Rampike (who after suing and suing) ended up investing in some of the more profitable tabloids, surely the tabloid readers themselves carry some blame?Ultimately, I endured this novel as part of some research I’m doing. But the repetitive/brutal/deleterious (you see, I can use Big Words too!) tone of the novel; the author’s inability to sustain the voice of the sometimes nine-year-old, at other times nearly twenty-year-old Skyler Rampike; and the too-clever tricks and games played in the text (such as black-outs and parenthesis and footnotes to footnotes(5) ) all contributed to the general confusion and pretentiousness of the novel. (Did the author really think to impress us with the oh-so-casual mention of the intellectual and minimalist Arvo Pärt?) This novel would have greatly benefited from a ruthless editor, who slashed 50 000/100 000/ 150 000/take your pick words from the draft manuscript and saved us the effort of wading through the mammoth book. (Note to self: Another advantage of the Kindle is that I didn’t get wrist sprain from holding this gigantic tome.) (5) Do you remember earlier I said all would be revealed? (5a) I hope you had the deurhoevermoed (5b) that I did, and have continued reading until the end of my review. (I hope too, that you’ll press the YES button, when asked if this review was helpful!) (5b) I, too, can use strange foreign words to impress upon you, my dear reader, how very erudite and knowledgeable I (as the author imitating a supposedly dyslexic young boy) can be! This word is Afrikaans and, loosely translated, means “endurance.”(5a) Now it is time, dear loyal reader, to reveal why I have written my review in this weird/strange/odd way. I have imitated/copied/satirised the style of MY SISTER, MY LOVE. If you LOVED this review, you will (I promise) thoroughly enjoy MY SISTER, MY LOVE (and will probably give it 5 stars.) If you AB-so-LUTELY hated the way I ‘ve written this review: run! Run away from this book! It may be the death of you. It was almost the death of me but I’m a tough (and simple) boere meisie from South Africa and I survived to write this review. I hope it helps you make your decision whether to buy this book or not!(A Final Note: This review is for the Kindle edition)
  • (5/5)
    Joyce Carol Oates writes a riveting story of an American tragedy with brilliant psychological tension. I loved it. She is one of my favourite writers and she never disappoints.
  • (4/5)
    A suburban family destroyed by the parents' blind ambition. Based on the murder of JonBenet Ramsey in the 1990s. Masterly written, as always. But the satire lacks heart, which makes the dark story almost unbearable.
  • (5/5)
    This is a powerful book. It is based on the real-life murder of child beauty queen JonBenet Ramsey, with a satirical look at the desire for fame, life in the suburbs, fanatical Christians and living in "Tabloid Hell".In this novel, six year old Bliss Rampike is found murdered in her home. The story is narrated by her older brother, Skyler, who is writing a decade after the murder. Skyler has been heavily medicated and institutionalized ever since his sister's death and is struggling to survive the hell his life has become.Through is voice, we learn the story of the Rampike family. The success-driven parents, Betsey and Bix, who demand perfection from their children and are never satisified by what they have -- not their jobs, their home, friendships, each other, or tragically, their children.Skyler was "Mummy's little man" and came first in her heart until his younger sister, Edna Louise (later renamed Bliss) proved to be a champion figure skater. Skyler's narrative tells of his mother's drive to exploit Bliss's talent, and her attempts to use Skyler to make friends with prominent families in the neighbourhood. Joyce Carol Oates has created characters that are satirical, but the narrator (Skyler) is not stereotypical or two-dimensional. I really wanted to know how his life turned out. This book was disturbing, sometimes funny, sometimes shocking and I recommend it.
  • (3/5)
    As with most Oates novels, you won't like any of the characters and you'll squirm and wonder why you keep turning the page.
  • (4/5)
    Reading the reviews after I finished I discovered this was meant as a satire so I guess I took it way too seriously. In a way I am glad since the book is tragic from cover to cover and I felt like I took a beating reading it. This poor little girl and her brother pulled the short straw when it came to parents. They were totally self-centered and only interested in how they were perceived as parents that the only interest they took in their children was to transform them into window dressing. Even the names of all of the neighbors were brutal and violent. Masterfully written but I have to choose something more cheerful to read next like I need a warm scented bath after shoveling gravel.
  • (2/5)
    Skyler Rampike is the narrator of this somewhat bizarre book. It is a take-off on the JonBenet story with the murdered 6-year-old being Skyler's little sister Bliss who was a budding competitive ice-skater. The book is part murder mystery and part humorous take-off on life in the upper-middle-class suburbs and stage moms. Oates is one of my favorite authors, but with the exaggerated characters and bizarre storyline, this is not one of my favorite books that she has written.
  • (3/5)
    My Sister, My Love is Joyce Carol Oates’ creepy yet poignant interpretation of the Jon Benet Ramsey murder, as told by an older brother. The book explores the murder, and personalities of those surrounding the murder, of a competitive ice princess in the same vein as Jodi Picault’s 19 Minutes interpretively explored the Columbine High School murders.The portraits Joyce Carol Oates paints of the mother and the father in this fictional “Rampike” family are sympathetic yet repulsive. Their characters are victims of our all-American drive for money and fame. Fame, indeed, is what they get but at what cost? In this tale they not only lose their daughter, Bliss, to the murderer – I won’t ruin the surprise ending(!)- but their moral compass which was beginning to go astray at the time of her death, ends up all over the page. The narrater, Bliss’ brother, endures a living hell throughout the book until the final pages, but essentially his life was ruined by this sister from the get-go, primarily due to the mother’s bone-crushing need to have Bliss succeed on the ice. In this story the little girl is an ice skater as opposed to a beauty queen, and resides in New Jersey rather than Colorado. But Bliss is murdered at the age of seven, just like Jon Benet, and the mother tarted her up incessantly for the media, all the while proclaiming her modesty in front of the camera. Joyce Carol Oates explores the depravity brought upon our culture via the mass media. Nothing good can come of it.The text of the story is interspersed with “excerpts” from the narrator, Skyler’s, story within a story, in typed copy as though just found on his desk. Along with this are “handwritten” letters from “Your loving mother – Mummy”, the bane of Skyler’s existence, who is begging his forgiveness for the lack of love and begging for his involvement in her life again after the murder. These “authentic” inserts, along with Skyler’s own “footnotes” add a liveliness to the text, which is somewhat looong at 562 pages, not that any of it wasn’t riveting reading, but given the heavy tone of the novel it starts to get wearing just after midway through it. Not my favorite Joyce Carol Oates, and I am a fan, but that’s probably due to the basic premise of the plot. MAT10_09
  • (3/5)
    "My Sister, My Love" is compulsively readable, but I'm sad to say that I don't think it's one of Oates's better efforts. It's book's subject, which is to say, JonBenet Ramsay and the weird, strained upper-class world she came from, that holds the reader's attention. The book is narrated from the point of view of Skyler Rampike, our fictional JonBenet's teenage older brother, and he's a fairly unlikable narrator, given to a self-deprecating sarcasm that grows wearying over five hundred or so pages. Oates pulls out all the po-mo stops, having Skyler construct the narrative before our very eyes, but this painfully self-aware approach only makes his narrative presence more intrusive. Worse, Oates's look at the Ramsay/Rampike family doesn't much get beyond cartoonish caricature: Mom's a Stepford wife, Dad's an overbearing, all-American A-type, Bliss/JonBenet is forced to be a parody of little-girl femininity. This may be, of course, a commentary on the Ramsays themselves, who were, as far as most Americans are concerned, nothing more than a series of sensationalistic news reports and creepy images, but this one-dimensional approach isn't much fun to read and keeps Oates from delving into what really drives her characters. Oates remains a gifted graphomaniac of the first order, and the book isn't without its effective, and affecting, passages, most notably her description of Skyler's teenage romance and his ultimately successful attempts to overcome his past. I'd recommend that LibraryThingers read "You Must Remember This" instead.
  • (4/5)
    My Sister, My Love, subtitled The Intimate Story of Skyler Rampike, is based on the murder of child beauty queen JonBenet Ramsey and is written from the point of view of the murder victim's elder brother. It really is a fascinating and utterly gripping read and kept my turning the pages almost compulsively. Perhaps just a tiny bit too long - in particular, I couldn't really see the point of including a short story supposedly written by the protagonist that felt like unnecessary padding, but on the whole a book that was impossible to put down and that made me rush off to buy two factual books about the Ramsey case to investigate further.
  • (4/5)
    At first, I didn't think I was going to like this book and then I got drawn in to the point that I had a hard time putting it down. Loosely based on the story of Jon-Benet Ramsey and written from the point of view of the overlooked older brother, the author gives us an inside look at the family dynamics of a mother living her life through her daughter, while the family falls apart. The aftermath of the murder is also explored with some interesting twists. A tragic look at what celebrity can do to a family and perhaps an indictment of a certain aspect of contemporary culture.
  • (5/5)
    Inspired by the infamous Ramsey murder case, this book is a boy's tale to cope with his sister's murder. It is raw with emotion and passion, and it is therefore difficult to detect Oates's incisive look at voyeurism, children exploitation, medication abuse in the school system, religious frenzy and a slew of other problems. It is incredibly well-written and therefore not entirely believable that a teen would have that kind of mastery of the language (the occasional fumbles in language are too contrived). The characters are both detestable, pitiful and to a large extent stereotypical since they are meant as but puppets of real-life, but they remain human and believable. Oates has an uncanny way of reaching into the subconscious and expressing feelings with shadows. She succeeds marvelously well in this novel.
  • (5/5)
    Though it took some effort to keep picking the book up because of the cold, callous parents, eventually I cared enough about poor little Skyler that I could not put the book down until I found out if he would ever get his life back. I feel Oates did a brilliant job. It is the most uniquely written book I have ever read!
  • (5/5)
    Wow! I loved this book. No one does dysfunctional families as well as Oates! The family dynamics reminded me a lot of her other books I have read (Gravedigger's Daughter, We Were the Mulvaneys). The story is told from Skyler's point of view as a 19-year-old recalling his childhood and the life and mysterious death of his little sister Bliss ten years before.
  • (4/5)
    This is a strangely gripping book. At times, I was repelled by plot. The intensity lasted through the 562 pages. The story of Edna Louise, renamed Bliss who became a prodigy girl figure skater & was murdered at the age of 8. The brother, Skyler, believed that he was the murderer. Throughout the book's vivid discription of Skyler's mental illness & the disintegration of the family, the reader is horrified with the action of the parents. I'm not really sure who the murderer is. The ending made me think that we never know who we really are. We are all atoning for something. This story, I believe, was to mirror the JonBonnet case. Mass media is a character in this book.